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When Easton turned off the motorcycle in front of what looked like a huge warehouse with black walls and neon lights illuminating the entrance, I jumped off the death trap and nearly threw the helmet at his head.
“You said you’d go slow!” I complained.
“I was going slow.”
“You ran two red lights!”
“There weren’t any cars.”
I placed a hand over my stomach.
“I think I’m going to throw up.”
“You’re so dramatic,” he murmured while bringing a cigarette to his lips.
“I’m not dramatic, your driving is just horrible.”
“Whatever you say,” he mocked before exhaling cigarette smoke directly into my face.
I glared at him furiously.
“Anyway, what is this place?”
“The X Bar,” he informed me while resting the motorcycle on its kickstand. Guys and girls were constantly entering and leav
